


Arseholes

by postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, PWP, Post-Hogwarts, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 22:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: In which words and actions don't mean the same thing.





	Arseholes

**Author's Note:**

> [HD Consent Fest 2018](http://hdconsentfest.tumblr.com) Prompt:#85: Draco says yes to trying something new, but doesn't really mean it. Harry can tell.
> 
> Thanks to the mods for getting all of this up and running and their efficient cat-herding skills.
> 
> SPaGed and beta-ed by Spf. Ta ever so.

“You,” Harry says punctuating each word with a kiss down the knobs of Draco’s spine, “are beautiful.” Draco preens, arching his back and trying to wiggle Harry’s fingers deeper. “So fuckin’ delicious,” Harry's string of kisses reach the top of Draco’s arse crack, “I could eat you all up.” Draco freezes, his hole clenching just a little too tightly around Harry’s fingers.

They’d been here before, the first time they tumbled into bed – tumbled being the operative word – sober enough to know what they were doing that night, too drunk to consider how they’d deal with it in the morning. “Dicks, digits or dildos, Potter,” Draco had snapped, redirecting Harry back to his weeping cock with a forceful tug on his hair, “My arsehole is no place for a tongue.” After that rimming was never on the table; it wasn’t even a card in their deck.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Harry asks, his voice squeaking a little high in surprise.

“Eat me all up, Harry,” Draco grunts, wiggling his hips to encourage Harry's fingers too start moving again, “please.”

He picks up where he left off, a kiss at the very top of Draco's arse crack, another a little further down, then he licks slowly around the rim stretched pink around his fingers. The taste is unmistakably Draco, just as the air after a late August thunderstorm feels like his magic, the taste is inherently Draco, _intrinsically_ Draco. He traces the puffy edges with the tip of his tongue as he slowly slides his fingers out, Draco’s walls squeezing tighter as they leave. Harry pushes his tongue in, he’s barely breached when he feels the tension; Draco’s clenched tighter than a Gringotts’ vault.

“Draco?” he pulls up, rubbing gentle circles over the tensed muscles in Draco’s thighs, “We don’t-”

“It’s fine, Potter.” Harry doesn’t need to see to know that Draco’s spitting from behind grinding teeth, “Just get on with it.”

“Nope,” Harry sits up and leans back on his heels.

Pulling his elbows underneath him to give himself just enough leverage, Draco casts a withering look over his shoulder, “You won’t reach from there, your tongue’s not that magic.”

Harry gives a little smile and leans forward, he crawls up the bed til he’s forehead-to-forehead with Draco, “We don’t have to,” he says in almost a whisper, then tips his head to land a kiss.

Draco baulks and pulls back, at Harry’s frown he clarifies, “Arsehole breath”.

Harry snorts out a laugh, as if Draco’s morning kisses didn’t taste like a dozen erumpants had died in his mouth and a kneazle or three had popped by for a grief-stricken piss. “Yes, your majesty,” he says burying a kiss in Draco’s crown as he hops out of bed towards the ensuite. He returns – pyjama-ed and peppermint-fresh – a couple of minutes later, fluffs his pillow and settles on the bed next to Draco.

“What’s this?” Draco waves derisively at Harry’s flannel pyjama bottoms, “Since when do we dress for sex? I told you it was fine, now lick my arsehole.” There’s a quiver in his voice on the last word, he’s trying to cover it with anger but Harry hears it.

“No,” Harry says softly as he settles into the mound of pillows and cushions that haven't yet been tossed on the floor, “I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to‽” his voice rises to a taunt, “Potter doesn’t want to,” he practically spits the ‘P’.

Harry rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his arm, “Don’t you dare go all Malfoy on me.” He can see the snarl building up on Draco’s face, and pauses. This will either explode or fizzle and – as much as he knows Draco – he still can never quite tell.

Draco drops to the mattress and rolls away.

Fizzle.

“What are you playing at, Draco?” Harry asks quietly, almost rhetorically, he’s not sure he even really expects an answer. The smooth, pale plains of Draco’s back give nothing but tension away. Harry tentatively places a hand on Draco’s shoulder, it’s not shrugged off so he begins to rub yet more gentle circles with his thumb, “Hey.” It’s not a question, not a demand for attention, nothing more than letting him know he’s still there.

It takes several minutes and three, no four, deep breaths before Draco says anything. He mumbles into his pillow, and if Harry hadn’t been listening to every little breath he’d have missed it, “I don’t want you to find someone else.”

“What?”

“I-like-you-and-I-don’t-want-you-to-find-someone-else-just-because-I-don’t-”, the words tumble out and into the pillow.

Harry sits up, this isn’t a lying down conversation, “Draco, look at me.”

“No.” Harry can see the splodges of red creep over his skin; the perils of being a porcelain pureblood, Draco flushes like a tomato at the first hint of embarrassment, anxiety, guilt, well anything really.

“Okay,” Harry concedes, and continues to talk to his back, “I don’t want to find someone else, I don’t want to lick some nameless arsehole. I don’t need another arsehole, you're all the arsehole I need.” Draco’s shoulders slump a little as the tension seeps out, “You’re the fuckin’ king of arseholes, the patron saint of arseholes, all lesser arseholes kneel before you.”

Draco rolls over onto his back and glares at Harry, but the corners of his lips curl up as he says, “Fuck off”. He holds out a hand, expecting to be pulled up. Harry's hand is warm and strong as he does just that.

“Draco, I like you,” he says, not letting go of Draco's hand, “I would hardly’ve put up with you for two years if I didn’t, would I now? I like that you’re a haughty, prickly arsehole. I love that you’re my haughty, prickly arsehole. Fuck it, I even like that look of utter disgust you give me when I put the milk in before taking out the teaba-”

“What kind of philistine even– In Earl Grey! Earl Grey‽’’

“Dra-”

“And have ever heard of a thesaurus, Potter‽ Arsehole this, arsehole that. Forget madness, we're all arseholes here!”

“Malfoy.”

Draco raises an eyebrow in question, _Why are you Malfoying me?_

“It's just me,” Harry pulls their clasped hands into his lap, “you don't have to.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but it doesn't deter Harry; Harry, as quietly tenacious as ever, just stares.

A harrumph.  
A puff of breath blowing hair out of his eyes.  
Another eyeroll.

Eventually, _eventually_ , the mask begins to slip. Harry lets it fall all the way before he catches Draco with a gentle squeeze of their hands, “It’s okay to say ‘no.’” Draco gives an almost imperceptible nod. “I know you can do better than that. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the amount of times we’ve stood over there,” Harry nods towards their wardrobe, “and you’ve told me no, I can’t wear my hoodie to Sunday luncheon. You can say no to that, so why not to rimming?”

Draco blanches slightly at even just the word, before steeling himself with the almost-patented Malfoy smirk, “You make a valid point, Potter, they’re equally unclean and both decidedly uncouth.”

Harry lets the jibe slide, “You can say no. No to the hoodie, no to the rimming, no to whatever else you want to say no to. There are other things we can do. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Draco nods quietly, sealing their deal as they both settle back down into the pile of pillows. “So these other things?”

“Mmm hmm?” Harry mumbles.

“Fuck me?”

“No, ta,” Harry says pulling Draco into his arms, “far too comfy.” He pulls him tighter against his torso and Draco wriggles to get just as comfortable, or as comfortable as he can with his growing hard-on crushed against Harry’s powerful thigh.

“Will you at least do something about this?” Draco nods at his now almost-throbbing cock which is zapping a good chunk of his willpower to not just rut like a crup against Harry’s leg.

Harry lets his fingers trail down Draco’s stomach to the patch of dark golden curls, “Like this?” Draco bucks a little, clearly hoping to encourage Harry to venture further. Harry lets his fingers continue sliding down his inner thighs, “How about this?” He pushes on further ‘til they reach the soft skin of his balls, “Maybe here?”

Nearly incoherent with frustration Draco huffs out a “No.”

“Or like this?” Harry, at last, wraps his hand around Draco's cock and runs his thumb along the vein.

“Yes, you arsehole.”

**Author's Note:**

> As part of the inaugural [HD Consent Fest](http://hdconsentfest.tumblr.com) the mods asked all contributors to include an endnote touching on how they approached the theme of consent.
> 
> The prompts for the fest covered a whole myriad of things, from verbal and non-verbal cues, communication and the enthusiastic-consent model, to kink negotiation and safewords, but for me, there was a quote in an [everyday feminism article](https://everydayfeminism.com/2016/06/trouble-setting-boundaries/) which I think really sums up what I was going for in this fic: _“Just as your partner does not have to do anything with you that they’re not comfortable with, you don’t have to do anything with your partner that you’re uncomfortable with – even if the source of your discomfort is your partner’s body language or the tone of their voice.”_
> 
>  **Standard fanfic disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it belongs to J.K. Rowling; this is just fanfic for nothing other than entertainment purposes.


End file.
